I Spent 48 Hours in a City I Couldn’t Pronounce

The name had too many consonants, not enough vowels, and a rhythm I couldn’t wrap my tongue around. It was a last-minute decision, a detour between two better-known stops on my itinerary. I booked the ticket because the train was cheap and the photos looked promising. That was the extent of my research.

When I arrived, my first attempt to say the city’s name earned a soft laugh from the station clerk, followed by a gentle correction. I tried again. Still wrong, but closer. It became a running joke with myself: I was here, exploring a place I couldn’t say out loud without stumbling.

But what I discovered in those 48 hours was that understanding a place doesn’t always begin with knowing how to pronounce it. Sometimes it begins with being willing to show up anyway.

Arriving Without Expectations

There’s something oddly freeing about arriving in a place you know nothing about. No must-sees, no restaurants bookmarked, no pressure to “make the most of it.” Just streets to walk, corners to turn, and signs you can’t read.

I wandered the first day without a plan. I followed the smell of baking bread into a side street. I paused at a mural that stretched across a crumbling wall. I sat in a park with a coffee and watched an elderly couple feed birds with practiced grace.

It was aimless in the best possible way. I wasn’t chasing anything—I was simply receiving what the place had to offer, one small moment at a time.

The Awkwardness of Not Knowing

There were language fumbles. I pointed a lot. Smiled more. Ordered meals without knowing what would arrive. Once, I accidentally asked for “two cats” instead of “two coffees.” The barista’s laugh was kind, not cruel.

Every interaction reminded me of my vulnerability—and also of my capacity to be in spaces where I’m not fluent, not certain, and still welcome. The people I met were patient, amused, occasionally curious about why I had come. I didn’t have a great answer. I just said, “I wanted to see.” And that seemed to be enough.

The Freedom of Temporary Presence

Being somewhere for just 48 hours gives everything a certain lightness. You’re not trying to belong. You’re not trying to master anything. You’re just visiting.

That time limit made me more attentive. I walked more slowly, noticing things I might’ve missed if I’d had a week. The sound of church bells that didn’t mark the hour. The way certain buildings leaned slightly, gracefully, with age. A bookstore tucked below street level, filled with titles I couldn’t read but longed to flip through anyway.

In those two days, I felt deeply connected not because I understood everything, but because I was willing to be present despite not understanding.

Leaving Without Mastery

I never did learn to pronounce the city’s name correctly. I tried. I asked locals. I listened closely. But each time I said it, it came out with a softness and uncertainty that gave me away.

And strangely, I didn’t mind. Because my time there wasn’t about mastery—it was about meeting the unfamiliar with openness. About realizing that sometimes, pronunciation is less important than presence.

The Takeaway: Go Where You Can’t Fake Comfort

There’s something humbling and expansive about traveling to a place where you can’t hide behind fluency, where the streets aren’t curated for your ease, where you have to lean into not knowing.

It strips away the illusion of control and replaces it with something more honest: curiosity, humility, and wonder.

I spent 48 hours in a city I couldn’t pronounce. And I left with no souvenirs, no perfect photos, no polished story—just the memory of how it felt to be slightly lost and fully alive.